


Doctors and Nurses

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Watson sprains his ankle, Holmes is there to look after him.  Reluctantly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctors and Nurses

“I am afraid there is nothing else for it, Holmes,” I said, grimacing in pain. “You will have to nurse me over the next few days, until I am back on my feet again.”

Holmes’s responding look was one filled with the horror of a thousand men. His eyes blinked rapidly, his nostrils appeared to tremble and his jaw wobbled calamitously for one very brief moment.

“But -” he began, and stopped.

“Holmes,” I repeated, patiently, “I have a badly sprained ankle, and absolutely must rest it. Mrs. Hudson is away all week visiting her family. The stairs are quite unmanageable for me at present. I will not require very much assistance, believe me. I have my crutches for when it is essential, otherwise I must keep my foot elevated on cushions. I will still need your help with meals and other wants, however, my dear fellow.”

I adjusted my recumbent position slightly, and winced. “Ouch.”

“Do not move your foot, then, if it pains you,” said Holmes. He sighed and swept a glance around his bedroom which had been temporarily transformed into my sickroom, being so conveniently situated as it was to our sitting-room. He had been obliged to move a great many papers, volumes and glass instruments before the bed could be made at all hospitable, and it was quite evident that this was at a considerable inconvenience to him. He uncrossed his legs and made to rise from his chair.

“Is there… anything you… require, Watson?” he asked, tentatively.

I glanced at the clock on the small bedside table.

“It is almost lunch time, Holmes. I would very much appreciate a sandwich, if you might be so kind?”

“A… sandwich?” he frowned. “What kind of a sandwich?”

“Beef and mustard?” I suggested, hopefully.

Holmes sighed again. He made to leave.

“And a cup of tea.” I added.

Holmes mumbled something under his breath, then, which I did not care to have him repeat. The first thing I had asked him to do for me and already he was behaving as a spoiled child. I willed my poor ankle back to full health again; I cursed its frailty at such a time when it was least appreciated. I heard Holmes’s footsteps heading down to Mrs. Hudson’s kitchens and couldn’t suppress a smile all the same. Unless he was a true incompetent, there was not much that could go wrong with a beef and mustard sandwich and a cup of hot tea. I waited patiently.

After 30 minutes I began to grow weary of my waiting, and rang the small handbell by the bed which was placed there for such emergencies. I listened, but could hear nothing, so rang it again and for longer this time. All at once I heard a great clumping up the stairs and Holmes burst into the room bearing a large silver tea tray and a filthy expression.

“What!” he demanded. “I have brought you your lunch, there is no need to be quite so brusque with the wretched bell. I have been about it as quickly as I was able. Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen is both labyrinth and nightmare.”

He placed the tray down ungracefully before me, and stood back in anticipation of my gratitude. I looked at the plate.

“Holmes,” said I, “did you use a woodcutter’s axe to slice the loaf of bread?”

Two massively uneven doorstops of bread sat lopsidedly upon a china plate. Inside I presumed there to be a filling; unfortunately I could not see it at once. I lifted one doorstop and peered inside. A haphazardly carved hunk of beef sat sadly in the middle of the lower slice, a thick crown of bright yellow mustard upon its head. I hastily replaced the covering of bread.

“Thank you,” I said, quickly. “That is quite a lot of mustard, though, Holmes.”

“You are not happy with it?” His face fell. “I could not gauge how much to use, so I finally concluded that more is better than too little. There is bread enough to soak it up, though, Watson.”

“Yes, there most certainly is,” I replied, staring glassy-eyed at the doughy colossus before me. I picked it up, and took a hesitant bite out of the least imposing side. I chewed for a great many seconds. The thickness of the bread, the toughness of the beef and the sharpness of the mustard all convened to make my jaw ache and my eyes water.

“Is it a good sandwich?” asked my friend, solicitously.

“Mmmm,” I mumbled, my mouth still impossibly full of it. I reached for my cup of tea and took a long draught. It was a further few seconds before I was able to speak any further. “Holmes! However many sugars did you put in this cup?”

“Four and a bit,” said he. “I remembered that you had a sweet tooth, so that seemed to be about right.”

“I usually only take two,” I advised him, well on my way now to my first sugar high of the day.

“So you do not like the tea either?” Holmes scowled. He made to snatch the tray away again, but I caught his wrist.

“It is fine,” I placated, “forgive me, you must not take me so seriously. You are a wonderful and helpful friend to me.”

Holmes was slightly mollified. “May I leave, then?” he asked, edging towards the exit. I nodded, and he backed out of the room, leaving the door ajar. I returned my attention to my lunch. My mouth was afire from the mustard but I dared not leave a morsel for fear of offending my friend. I swallowed it down and drank my sweet tea. I could hear Holmes moving around within the sitting-room. He appeared to be reorganising his bookshelves, for there was a kerfuffle of banging and thumping and a shuffling of papers. A short while later, Holmes received a client and they talked together quietly for some minutes. I wished that I was in there with them taking notes as usual, instead of invalided here with my hoisted foot. The visitor eventually left, and there was a silence.

“Holmes?” I called out.

My friend poked his head around the door. “Yes?”

“Might you bring me some ice?”

“Ice! Was the mustard really so very hot?”

“No, Holmes, I require a little ice for my ankle swelling,” I explained. “Do you have a new case? I heard your visitor.”

“Oh…” Holmes waved a hand in dismissal. “Yes, I have a case, but it is not of such a very great interest. I have all but solved the problem. The squirrels, my dear boy, the squirrels.”

“The squirrels?” I blinked in confusion. “What did the squirrels do?”

“The squirrels did nothing, that was the curious thing,” replied my friend. “Now. Ice! For your wretched ankle.” And he clattered away down the stairs once more.

And so the hours passed by in this fashion. From time to time Holmes would visit my bedside to talk of this and that, or to play me a snatch of some melody on his violin. He supplied me with ice, several cups of adequately sugared tea, and one truly dreadful attempt at a dinner which I would rather not recall in any great detail. Mrs. Hudson would surely be adding the cost of the burnt saucepans and broken dishes to our next payment of rent. By the following morning I was feeling sufficiently well to hobble through to the sitting-room and make camp for myself on the sofa.

“How are you feeling this morning, Watson?” Holmes asked. His face seemed fully prepared to flinch at my reply.

“I am a little better, Holmes, thank you,” I replied. “What is for breakfast?”

“You did not eat all of your dinner,” said he, sulkily, “so I am not at all sure that you would enjoy my breakfast. I boiled some eggs, Watson, but they did not turn out quite as expected.”

“I shall forego the eggs,” I said, thinking it wise. “Some toast would be nice, however.”

“Toast!” My friend’s voice rose a notch higher. I endeavoured to ignore the shrillness of its timbre. “I did not make toast! The eggs were quite complicated enough! Toast it is, then. And if you ring that damned bell even once while I am downstairs then I shall not be held responsible for my actions.”

“And a cup of tea,” I added.

The door slammed. I chuckled, which was very bad of me, but my friend’s reactions to my predicament were beginning to amuse me. All the same, I was desperate for my ankle to heal, so that we might venture out for an edible something at Simpson’s as opposed to an inedible whatnot at Baker Street. I tested my foot gingerly upon the floor, and although still very painful it did not seem quite so swollen or as agonising as the day before.

The toast, when it arrived, was a little burned around the edges but otherwise fairly palatable. At mid-afternoon Holmes excused himself for a couple of hours - presumably to set forth the proof regarding the oblivious squirrels - and I settled down to my reading. Upon my friend’s return I saw that he was accompanied now by a large, plainly dressed and homely woman with a red face and a broad smile.

“This is Mrs. Bartholomew,” said Holmes, by way of an introduction, “the lady whose squirrels did nothing. We have acquired her services here in lieu of payment for her case.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bartholomew,” I said to the amiable lady. “We have acquired your services in exactly what respect, might I ask?”

“I am a cook, Doctor,” said she, “and Mr. Holmes has informed me of your injured ankle, and how your landlady is currently with family. I thought how best I might be able to assist you both, and then Mr. Holmes said how sorely you were in need of kitchen help over the next few days.”

“Isn’t it marvellous!” said Holmes, beaming in relief.

“I see,” said I, laughing. “That is very good indeed, Holmes. That is not to say I am ungrateful for all that you have done for me, of course.”

“Of course,” my friend replied. “But I do have my limits. I can quite safely say that I never wish to hear the infernal tinkling of another handbell as long as I live.”

“I will try to promise you that, Holmes,” said I, with a salute.

“And now, my dear Mrs. Bartholomew, if you would be so kind as to follow me…” And Holmes led the good lady down in the direction of Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, that she might begin the preparations for our first complete meal in two days. I shifted my sore ankle upon its cushion and began to hum contentedly.


End file.
